


Making It Work

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Project Runway, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6266473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles can't believe his luck when it turns out that yes, this challenge actually does involve them working in teams.</p><p>He goes right on back to believing it when he's paired with Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making It Work

**Author's Note:**

> I made a Runway-themed photoset! Apparently I like to torture myself with Photoshop, so please enjoy [these manips and pics](http://fishcommander.tumblr.com/post/141650740746/making-it-work-by-suchfun-for-the-sterek-au).
> 
> Note: this is not the strictest of AUs—in this fic, Project Runway is an untelevised intra industry competition, so no cameras/crew etc. Otherwise, the competition elements run pretty much exactly the same way, although prior knowledge of the show shouldn't be necessary. 
> 
> Thanks to Bek for the fantastic beta(s) and for listening to me cry about this for way too long, and both Bek and Mary for Houndstooth, my noble land mermaids, they outdo themselves daily. Many thanks also to the Sterek AU Fest Mods, who were so thoughtful and understanding.

Stiles applies to Project Runway knowing the following things:

1) The competition is the brainchild of Allison Argent, an ex-model from a family of fashion royalty, who decided she didn't share her family's penchant for elitism and nepotism and created her own legacy.

2) Allison's husband Scott mentors the contestants, encouraging their ideas and providing them with advice. Lydia Martin, design wunderkind who also happens to be Allison's best friend, sits on the judging panel along with Alan Deaton, fashion guru of thirty years, and Allison herself.

3) The competition itself, now in its fifth year, is open to amateur, up and coming designers and runs over three weeks, with a new design challenge every few days. It starts with twelve contestants but it's a knockout competition so there's always a winner, who receives immunity for the next challenge, and a loser, who gets sent home.

4) Only the remaining three designers make it to the final challenge, which involves designing an entire collection and showing it at New York Fashion Week.

5) The winner gets one hundred thousand dollars to launch their own fashion line, not to mention a sudden influx of attention, because over the years the competition has come to be regarded by the fashion industry as producing _the_ designers and trends to watch.

6) The winner is never a self-taught late bloomer from a small town in Northern California who used to think the height of fashion was plaid and obnoxious message tees, so Stiles will probably never even get an audition. 

+

Stiles applies to Project Runway never predicting the following things:

1) That he would actually get an audition, and pass it.

2) That he would somehow last past the first week.

3) And then past the second week. 

4) And then become one of the final six contestants.

5) That he would be become one of those final contestants after winning the last two challenges in a row.

6) That Allison Argent's seventh design challenge would spell the untimely demise of not only his winning streak, but also his entire career, probably.

+

"Good morning designers, and welcome back to the workroom," Allison says, forebodingly innocent, her eyes sparkling. Too bad for her Stiles knows that behind her sweet appearance and amazing work ethic hides a merciless and resolute soul.

It'd be a turn on if it wasn't so distressing.

"Today," she continues, "your challenge consists of several elements. Firstly, and I know this will please some of you more than others, you'll be using beautiful, luxurious prints to create two outfits—one for day, and one for night."

Stiles' heart plummets, deep down, probably somewhere in the vicinity of his balls. Oh. Shit. This is going to be a disaster. He tries to keep his expression neutral, to not reveal his bordering-on panic, glad that his workbench is at the back of the room so the others can't see him, and glances at Derek, stationed at the bench to his right.

And it's selfish, he knows it is, but he can't help but feel relieved when Derek ( _Derek freaking Hale_ , who studied at Parsons aka the top design school in the USA aka the college experience Stiles would have killed to have, who already has the endorsement of some hot MTV starlet who is wearing his dresses to awards ceremonies, but whatever) looks like he's just as worried as Stiles—his lips are slightly pursed and his eyes are wide, which Stiles has learned over the past couple of weeks is Derek-speak for 'oh shit'.

In front of them, it's a different story. Erica is grinning widely, because prints have taken pride of place in her aesthetic since day one. Isaac has nothing to worry about either, his silhouettes are always incredible, and Boyd's whole stoic I-am-a-super-serious-important-designer front masks a killer ability to do beautiful, unpredictable things with textiles. Even Danny doesn't look too bothered, probably because although he prefers to work with leather, his draping is always perfect. The only people at a severe disadvantage here are Stiles and Derek, because Derek almost obsessively focuses on clean lines and dark block colours, and Stiles doesn't have training in any of the more complicated techniques, has only just started to establish his own aesthetic beyond a penchant for layering fabrics. 

So, not only is this the most important challenge so far, but it's completely centred around what is probably his weakest skillset.

Stiles can barely believe his own thought processes, but for the first time ever (probably in the history of the whole Project Runway competition), he finds himself hoping that this turns out to be a team challenge. 

+

Stiles can't believe his luck when it turns out that yes, the second part of this challenge actually does involve them working in teams.

He goes right on back to believing it when he's paired with Derek.

And then the kicker—

"You'll have about thirteen working hours for this challenge," Allison says. "Which you should use very carefully, because these are your clients."

Three women walk into the room. One is tall and barefoot, one is short and skinny, one is short and fat. None of them are models.

"Oh shit," Danny breathes behind him. He's late to the panic party, but Stiles isn't gonna be the one to kick him out. 

+

Half an hour of sketching time is never enough. Half an hour of sketching time with Derek as his partner borders on disastrous, and they bicker for the first ten minutes without either of them even touching a pencil.

Thankfully for them, their assigned client is both forthright and impatient.

"Do I need to slap one of you?" Danielle asks loudly, interrupting Stiles' thoroughly compelling rant about his many, _many_ objections to using chiffon. "Or should I just save time and do both of you?"

Stiles briefly considers addressing the obvious innuendo. A not at all subtle and incredibly threatening nostril flare from Derek (how did he get so good at menacing microexpressions, anyway) convinces him to keep his mouth shut.

"I came here for a reason," she continues. "I want my dresses. You two _better_ give me my dresses. Are we clear?"

Stiles and Derek nod.

Danielle fixes them both with a glare, alternating between them for a few legitimately scary seconds, before she stands and sweeps around the table to stop in front of them. "Now. I don't know how much you two know about a curvier woman, but this is how it goes." She gestures to her legs: "Highlight." Her bust: "Complement." Her stomach and upper arms: "Conceal. Follow these three simple rules and we will achieve maximum fabulousness. You got that?"

It's not really like they have a choice, after that.

+

Mood is the mother lode of all fabric stores and every designer's dream. Stiles doesn't know if they ever do stocktake, but he's pretty sure it would take at least a month, maybe two, maybe even six. It feels like being inside the TARDIS or Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory every time he steps inside.

It's too bad Stiles is actually pretty terrible at shopping at Mood. He can never decide on one thing and usually grabs a whole bunch of stuff he isn't sure he needs but thinks he might be able to use, gets back to the workroom and freaks out about all the things he didn't get, then throws himself into his work and hopes something good happens.

Unsurprisingly, Derek is the opposite. Derek is methodical. He knows exactly what kind of fabric he wants, has a detailed list prepared beforehand, and is very rarely willing to compromise. When he can't find exactly what he's looking for (which is most of the time, because he seems to require an allocated budget of about two thousand dollars a garment instead of two hundred) he sulks, becoming even more closed-off and insular than usual.

Stiles refuses to let any of those things happen today. He is _not_ going home because of Derek Hale, and Derek Hale is _not_ going home because of him.

Derek agrees. Or, he says, "Fuck this up for me and I'll cut your throat out. With my bluntest scissors." Which is close enough.

+

It's amazing how much larger the workroom feels this week, with their numbers cut in half and the extra work benches removed. It's almost eerie, and Stiles would be perturbed if not for the fact that he mainly just feels relieved that he can finally walk to the sewing machine room or the break room without a) someone getting overprotective about their work and b) everything being a tripping hazard. Both rooms are directly connected to the workroom proper, one branching off to the left and one to the right, with the bathrooms just down the hall, but none of them are exactly fit for kings. It was a tight squeeze when they started with all twelve contestants, and there were many arguments over who got to use which machine in the first few days—admittedly mainly between Stiles and Derek. 

Thankfully, though, the first hours of working together have gone much more smoothly. Stiles claimed the day outfit and Derek seemed happy enough (on a relative scale of happiness, anyway) to work with the more sophisticated evening outfit. They haven't spoken much, but that's good too, because that means they haven't argued. 

They just work, and Stiles cuts and drapes and hopes and prays.

+

"Okay I don't even care that you guys got the big girl, I will do anything to swap with you, _please_." Erica drops her lunch tray down next to Stiles', and he turns to see her staring pleadingly at him. Now that he's used to her, it's way scarier than her usual predatory expression.

"Your chick didn't seem that bad," he says, because she was thin and tall and those are pretty much the only prerequisites for a fashion designer's ideal client.

Erica snorts. "Are you kidding me? Kali is a nightmare, she hates everything! Danny tried to take her measurements and she practically bit his hand off, this is a dress challenge but she's refusing to wear one, and _then_ she informed us that she doesn't wear shoes! Ever! Who never wears _shoes_?"

"Onesies are in fashion now," Isaac says, unhelpful as usual as he saunters into the break room. Stiles hates this guy. Why the hell is he even here? Who invited him? What is his purpose? "What's wrong with a cute couture onesie? You could add little footlets."

Erica gives him the finger without even looking at him. Stiles admires her so much. "Ugh," she says, "how did I end up the only girl left, Malia and Kira were so much more useful than any of you asshats."

"Am I supposed to be consoling you right now?" Stiles asks. "You hit me upside the head with my own spool last week."

+

It's after lunch, when Scott comes in for his consultation, that things become disastrous.

Scott is basically the best mentor, helpful and encouraging, and Stiles always looks forward to hearing his thoughts. Even _Derek_ seems to value his input. Which is why, after Scott has finished with the other teams, nodding and smiling and seeming pleased with their progress, and he gets to Stiles and Derek's workstations and just tilts his head, staring blankly at their dress forms, Stiles already knows they're fucked.

Derek grunts his usual greeting, leaving it up to Stiles to stutter through a vague explanation of their work, and when he's finally finished Scott looks even more worried than before.

"Frankly, I'm concerned," he says. "Do you guys think that you've done enough? Like, at this point in the competition, so close to Fashion Week, you really need a wow factor. And right now you guys are like... not wowing anyone. I'm not seeing either of your design aesthetics here, it's just… so not awesome."

Stiles sags. He kind of knew it, he knew that they were probably going too basic, knew they needed to communicate more, but he chose not to say anything in favour of just hoping it would all work out somehow. Because as much as he likes to think otherwise, he really is just a cowardly asshole.

He sighs. Derek glares.

"You guys need to make this work," Scott says firmly, "or it'll be one of you going home. And none of us want that for you."

"Especially for me, am I right Scotty-boy?" Stiles says weakly, holding his fist out for a bump. 

Scott rolls his eyes and leaves, but Stiles sees the way his hand half-raises to bump him back before he remembers he's supposed to be unbiased. Stiles sees all.

"Well," Stiles says, standing back to observe their trainwreck of a workstation. The cerulean train of Derek's terrible dress falls fittingly like a pool of tears at their feet. "That was fun."

There's an awkward pause where they both kind of stand around staring at their atrocious clothes, before Derek suddenly huffs out a loud breath and grabs Stiles' wrist.

"Okay, come on," Derek commands, and he's marched them out of the workroom and into the break room before Stiles has even realised it. He pushes Stiles down on the couch and stares down at him. "We can do better than this," he barks out.

"I concur, dude," Stiles says slowly. "Is this—"

Derek cuts him off. "You're… not always a hyperactive idiot," he says grudgingly.

What is… huh? "Huh?"

Derek clenches basically all over, but especially his jaw. Like it wasn't already obvious he had a divine jawline. "Your construction can verge on abominable but your creativity is admirable," he grits out.

"Aww," Stiles says, trying not to let his smile get too wide, "that's so sweet."

Derek keeps watching him. The warm feeling that sprung in Stiles' chest dissipates more every second. Derek's eyebrows go up expectantly and Stiles—

—is supposed to compliment him back. Yeah, he totally knows how to converse properly with other human beings, totally, yeah, totally.

"Oh, right!" he says, clicking his tongue and shooting Derek with a finger gun. "Totes got your back bro. Your lines are always _crazy_ beautiful, and that gown you made for the red carpet challenge was the most exquisite thing I've ever seen."

Derek's eyebrows lower again and his posture loosens, like he's pleased but trying not to show it. "Your avant garde piece was ridiculous," he says, "but somehow also really haunting and elegant."

"Awesome man, thanks," Stiles says. "Most of the time I find myself wishing I had the legs for a dress, because the shit you make is so incredible I'm jealous of your model."

Derek finally sits down next to him, close enough that their elbows brush.

It's closer than he's ever been before.

"We're assholes," Stiles announces to the otherwise empty room.

Derek snorts. "Birds of a feather."

"Yeah but two assholes don't always make a right," Stiles reminds him.

"They do if your dildo's double-ended," Derek retorts, proving that no, Stiles really doesn't know anything about Derek Hale at all.

His mouth falls open, and he shifts slowly towards Derek on the couch, unable to truly process what just happened. "Did you just..."

But Derek's frowning, thinking hard. "We need the most high-fashion double-ended dildo we can make," he mutters.

Stiles can't find it in himself to get over Derek saying 'double-ended dildo' so many times. " _Did you just—_ "

But he's already grabbing Stiles' hand, not his wrist not his shoulder but his _hand_ , linking their fingers and dragging him back out into the workroom.

Erica wolf-whistles, laughing when Derek and Stiles simultaneously yell at her to shut up.

+

They change everything. They're as quick as possible, actually working together this time, comparing fabrics and styles and ideas, and Stiles is just sketching his dress for the fifth time, keeping the basic silhouette because he thinks it'll be flattering, when a thought occurs to him. 

"Hey," he says thoughtfully, adding a few lines to his dress, blocking in some colour, warming to his own idea, "what if we like, really collaborate. What if we use each other's aesthetics in our designs? We could kind of mix things up but still keep some core design elements consistent, like the length or whatever." He tilts his head, squints at his sketch, and changes the neckline, but Derek still doesn't answer him. He looks up to find Derek has gone stock still. He's watching Stiles over the table, or more accurately watching his sketch, and Stiles straightens up warily. "Derek?"

Slowly, Derek reaches over for Stiles' sketchbook and drags it across the table towards himself, sliding it directly next to his own pad. He stares at Stiles' design for almost a full minute, Stiles twitching uncomfortably, wondering if he should say something, before Derek suddenly starts sketching. He's pretty incredible to watch when he's focused. His pencil barely lifts off the page and in three minutes he has a brand new sketch, and Stiles can already tell it will be beautiful.

He's emulating Stiles' usual layering by creating his own print, laying the intricate black lace he bought over a white flared cocktail dress, and it's going to look stunning walking down the runway. Stiles' own design will be a far less elaborate shift dress that will feature a graphic pattern and Derek's signature colour blocking, but they'll have enough cohesive elements (the shapes in their prints, as well as length, neckline and colour palette) that it'll complement Derek's dress completely.

Yes, Derek's design is insanely risky in its complexity, and Stiles would probably break down and cry if anyone else attempted it, but Derek is the fastest and most capable designer and sewer he's ever met. So, instead of trepidation Stiles just feels… excitement? It's thrilling, working with Derek, sharing the buzz of creation and free flow of ideas, the way they bounce off each other. Somehow, they seem to actually work really well as a team. 

Who knew?

+

They barely scrape together muslin prototypes for Danielle to try on when she comes in for her fitting. They tweak and adjust and refit, and Danielle glances around the room at everyone else's designs, at where they're all much further ahead than Stiles and Derek, and looks distinctly unimpressed. When they're done, Stiles shows her their new sketches and she examines them wordlessly.

"So basically," she says slowly, eventually, "you ignored at least half of my demands and struck out on your own like a couple of rogues."

"Exactly," Stiles says.

She pauses, then looks them up and down with the most withering expression Stiles has ever seen. And then she warns, "These better be the best damn dresses I've ever seen in my life."

"They will be," Stiles says firmly.

+

Derek's silent for a long time after their short session with Danielle, but Stiles leaves him to it. Derek likes quiet, likes not to be distracted while he's working, Stiles knows this—Derek's yelled at him enough times for singing or humming or tapping in the workroom, Stiles knows a _lot_ about Derek's preferred working habits. He's worried enough about his own dress that he's happy to do the same, anyway.

If he's going more basic, less showy and more simple than Derek, it means his dress has to be _perfect_. Any little flaws will show and he'll get blasted by the judges if all his finishings aren't impeccable, which is so fucking anxiety-inducing for someone who's been told _every single week_ that his finishings need work and—

"Did you mean it?" Derek suddenly asks.

Stiles nearly stabs himself in the eye with his scissors at the sudden question, but he manages to wrangle himself under control and turns to Derek to ask, "What?"

"You sounded so sure when you were reassuring Danielle. Did you mean what you said or was it just bravado?" There's a vulnerable look in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before, and it makes this moment feel important, so Stiles tamps down on his first instinct to be sarcastic and tries to be sensitive.

"Yeah dude, I'm pretty sure I can do it, and I trust you, and basically I'm at the point now where I have to blindly believe or I'll explode in a fiery inferno of muslin and anxiety. So who knows, maybe it's both? But that doesn't mean I didn't mean it."

Derek blinks. "You trust me," he repeats dumbly.

"Don't you trust me?"

"I don't want to," he grumps, refusing to look at Stiles, but Stiles just grins.

He knows what that means.

+

Things run smoothly for the rest of the day.

At 5.42pm Stiles makes a crack about Deaton's frustratingly cryptic judging style that makes Derek let out a snort of laughter.

At 6.22pm Derek and Stiles both reach for the closest pair of scissors at the same time and Derek lets Stiles have them.

At 7.55pm they have dinner together in the break room and they have a discussion about representation in fantasy and sci fi, during which Stiles maybe gets a little distracted by the majestic dance of Derek's eyebrows when he's passionate about something.

At 10.17pm Stiles glances over at Derek to find Derek is watching him, hands paused on his own intricate work to observe Stiles as he tries to figure out the best way to lay some piping. Stiles wiggles the material at him and Derek puts down the lace he's holding. He steps carefully over to Stiles, taking the blue piping and pinning it swiftly to the back of Stiles' dress before running it down to frame the block of Stiles' print in the front. 

He stands back, pulling Stiles with him, and they both tilt their heads critically.

"Perfect," Stiles breathes, and Derek smiles.

At 11pm they have to stop for the day. Stiles looks at Derek. Derek looks at Stiles. They both look back at their dress forms.

"We might actually be okay," Stiles ventures.

"Don't get too excited," Derek says, but he's trying way too hard to be impassive, and they both know it.

+

The short trip from the workroom back to their hotel is quiet. There's so few of them now that they can be stuffed into one van, and everyone seems so caught up in their own heads that they don't mind being herded from the car to the elevator by Derek, who occasionally seems to think it's his responsibility to take on a leadership role.

Erica breaks off from the rest of them as soon they reach their floor, beelining straight for her room and slamming the door in their faces. Stiles isn't sure if she wanted a reaction or if she legitimately is just sick of them all or both, but they're all more than used to each other by now and they ignore the theatrics. Boyd, Danny and Isaac traipse towards their room up the hall, and Stiles follows Derek into the room they share, only barely stopping himself from flopping straight down across the two beds on his side of the room.

They used to share the space with Jackson and Harris, but they're both long gone by now, which Stiles is acutely grateful for. They were both dicks (Jackson in a 'my parents are rich and friends with Ralph Lauren's brother's tennis partner' way, and Harris in a 'call me by my last name because it's my brand and it's how my fans know me' way), and they had made an already stressful competition even more tense and exhausting simply by existing. After they left Stiles had worried about being alone with Derek, for many reasons, but even before he and Derek became partners they co-existed peacefully enough. Mostly it's because they're too tired to do anything more than brush their teeth in the tiny ensuite, fall asleep, wake up four hours later, make coffee in the even tinier kitchenette and then leave, but still. Stiles takes pride in the fact that Derek's only threatened his life twice in the past week.

Derek likes to change into his pyjamas (a thoroughly charming combination of sweats and tank top that Stiles is yet to recover from) as soon as they get home so Stiles lets him take the ensuite first, using the time to sneak in a few refreshing gulps of milk straight from the bottle and change into pyjama pants and an old t-shirt. When he's done he hovers by the bathroom door for lack of anything better to do, and when Derek reemerges he looks tired and he smells like peppermint. It's very attractive.

Stiles scowls and sets about aggressively brushing his own teeth, skipping flossing because he can't be bothered. He stares at himself in the mirror as foam collects around his mouth, and tries to tell himself that everything is fine, because it is. It totally is. Why wouldn't it be? It always is, it's always—

"Stop freaking out," Derek calls from the bedroom.

Stiles spits out his toothpaste. " _You_ stop doing _that_. It's weird." He leaves his toiletry bag on the counter for the morning and pads back into the bedroom.

"Doing what?" Derek asks, eyebrows raised. He even makes something as simple as lounging against the headboard in his bed look sexy, it's ridiculous.

"Knowing what I'm thinking. I never know what you're thinking unless your eyebrows tell me, this is very much an uneven exchange of information." He climbs into bed and turns out his light, rolling onto his back and crossing his arms.

Derek's light stays on, and there's no movement from his side of the room.

"Wanna know what I'm thinking?" he asks eventually, softly, and Stiles debates ignoring him, feigning sleep, but there's just no way he can do it. This is probably the first time Derek has ever volunteered to talk about himself, he'd have to be an idiot of the highest order to turn that offer down.

He sits up and turns his light on again, blinking until his eyes adjust. "You wanna tell me?"

Derek pauses. Stiles realises he's turning something over and over in his hands, and then he suddenly throws the thing to Stiles, who catches it purely on reflex that has nothing to do with 'playing' (see: benching) lacrosse in high school. He settles against his own headboard, directly mirroring Derek, and leans over to hold it under the lamp light.

It's a round fabric patch, roughly the size of his palm, worn and fraying around the edges. In the centre are three interlocking spirals sewn on in faded silver thread against the dark background of the fabric, which feels like some sort of rough cotton blend.

"Is this Celtic?" Stiles asks, rubbing a thumb over the pattern, glancing up at Derek.

He nods. "It's a triskele. It's kind of my family's... I guess it's like our crest? But I don't know if it's traditional or if we adopted it somewhere along the way."

"So this is like... what, your totem? Your lucky charm?"

"My great-great-grandma made it," Derek says softly. "It's been passed down in my family. It was supposed to go to my sister Laura, but she's failed every home ec class she's ever taken and she's always hated sewing, so..." He shrugs. "So my mom tried with me, and I liked it, and I was good at it, and I got the patch. It was kind of a point of contention between me and Laura when we were in high school but I made all of her prom and homecoming dresses so she shut up pretty quickly."

"That's pretty awesome, dude. All that history." Stiles doesn't know what it feels like to have that tradition, to share a hobby, a passion, to pass it down through generations. His dad had taken forever to adjust to the idea of his only son dropping out of college and becoming a designer, not a cop, and his mom… "My mom used to like cross stitch, but that's not really the same." She would spend hours when he was a kid, stitching him animal pictures and telling stories with them. The cross stitches themselves weren't very elaborate, and looking back now Stiles can tell she wasn't very good at them, but he'd loved every one, waited impatiently for her to finish each time so he could hear her newest story. Towards the end, they were some of the only things to bring her any comfort. She would forget her family, forget that they meant anything to her, but she never forgot that the cross stitches were somehow important. They're all hanging up in his workroom back home, now. Every single one.

The prom dress making, though, _that_ he can identify with completely. It's pretty much the only reason he's been able to support himself for the last few years, because—well, he didn't exactly plan on this being his life, on doing this, on being a fashion designer. He hadn't given a shit about design, or fashion at all, until junior year of high school, when he'd somehow ended up taking a home economics class. For one of his assignments he'd had no idea what the hell to do, so he'd cut up all of his inappropriate slogan t-shirts and an old lacrosse jersey, and hand-stitched them back together to say weird shit. He'd barely passed, even after justifying it with a two thousand word essay bullshitting about 'deconstruction' and how he was making a statement about the slow decline of self-expression in favour of seeking acceptance through herd mentality consumerism, but the thing was… he'd kind of liked it? And for pretty much the same reasons he loves it now.

There's just something about it, something he never would have seen for himself back in those useless early-level career talks. He'd never really thought of himself as creative—maybe in a 'find the best way to get out of trouble' way, but not in an artistic way. Letting his brain go, following wherever it takes him, letting it make whatever connections it wants, is both a novelty and a relief. He's almost always in the middle of four different garments at once, and he can jump from project to project depending on where his brain is, and people actually _pay_ him for it. Self-doubt aside, Stiles has to admit it's pretty bomb.

Shaking his head, he extricates himself from the covers and moves down to the end of his bed, carefully handing the triskele back. He settles there, cross-legged, and watches Derek cradle the patch for a few moments. "I taught myself to sew, but you know that. I'm pretty sure it's obvious in everything I do," he says. "Not that that's always a bad thing? I don't know, I think sometimes people get too locked into one way of doing things if they've been taught the 'proper' way, like too scared or something. I guess that's the one benefit of not knowing what I'm doing. All the freedom to experiment, none of the blame."

There's silence for a few moments as Derek picks at the threads hanging loose off the patch, gently, carefully smoothing his thumb over them, before he finally looks up at Stiles. His expression is intense, but soft around his eyes and lips, which is almost an entirely new look for him. Every other time Stiles dares to look close enough, Derek's pinched and glaring. This is pretty... pretty great, actually.

"I think you know exactly what you're doing," Derek says eventually. Stiles grins at him, his stomach flipping and squeezing and basically doing gymnastics as Derek smiles back at him, and they hold each other's gaze until Derek blurts, "I used to mend my teammates' uniforms."

"Dude!" Stiles exclaims, delighted by the mental image.

"Varsity basketball," Derek confirms. "You'd be amazed at the number of ripped crotches."

Stiles smirks. "Oh, I don't think I would."

+

The next morning, they have two hours to finish up before they have to head to the runway for judging. It goes as well as Stiles could have hoped:

1) He only snaps at Erica twice. She and Danny finish early and she's super obnoxious about it, heckling and bitching at everyone when she could be helping Boyd, who admittedly isn't on her team but who she _has_ been flirting pretty hard with and who seems to be trying really hard to pretend he's not freaking out about something (probably Isaac).

2) He only has one argument about accessories with Isaac. Stiles really thinks Isaac needs to tone them down, because right now he's got his client wearing dangly earrings and a chunky necklace _and_ he's trying to add a scarf, but the last person Isaac will ever listen to is Stiles (although Boyd eventually manages to compromise with him, and gets it down to a scarf and earrings combo).

3) When he accidentally sews on the wrong zipper, he only gets about halfway before Derek notices (god, Derek really saves his ass with that one, he's got eyes like a hawk).

4) The hem on his dress ends up being kind of wonky near the back, but it probably won't be _that_ noticeable. Hopefully.

5) He makes Danielle try on six pairs of shoes before he's finally satisfied, and technically they're shoes Danny was gonna use, but Stiles bribes him with... well, it involves Derek's abs (and he doesn't feel guilty because it's for the greater good).

6) When Scott announces it's time to take Danielle to hair and makeup, Stiles is still fixing the hem of his dress and so is Derek, but he knows Derek hates hair and makeup with a passion so he doesn't even really think before volunteering himself as tribute.

"I'll go," Stiles says. He drops his scissors on the workbench. "You keep working here, you're better at finishings anyway."

Derek frowns. "Are you sure—"

"Trust, remember?" Stiles says firmly, and Derek stares at him for a few moments. Stiles stares back, and it feels like something's building again, just like last night, and his breath is kind of gathering in his lungs and holding there, refusing to budge, in or out, stuck in the moment, but then—

"You guys remember we're on a time limit, right?" Danielle says, shattering the tension in what Stiles has come to learn is true Danielle style. 

Stiles thinks he should feel relieved. They've got a job to do, they need to stay focused on it, need to finish, need to _win_ , and if one of them goes home just when things are getting good it'll be a _tragedy_ , but.

But.

Shaking his head, he finally tears his eyes away from Derek and hustles Danielle out. 

+

The last ten minutes of the challenge are hectic and ridiculous, and Stiles barely even manages to see how the finished dresses look on Danielle, let alone check in with Derek. He hates this part, hates the rising panic, the anxiety overload. It feels impossible, like Scott will never call time, and he'll be caught in a time vortex, freaking out forever.

Finally, Scott announces that they're heading down to the runway, and everyone else crowds into the hall to follow him. Stiles takes one last moment in the workroom, letting out a ridiculously dramatic breath that he's glad Derek didn't see.

It's out of his hands, now. He did the best he could do. Whatever happens, this isn't the end.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he hurries to catch up to everyone else, careening around the corner and almost directly into Derek. 

"Ready?" Stiles asks lowly, steadying himself against the wall.

Derek glances over his shoulder. "I trust us," he says, and offers Stiles a small smile before dipping his head down again, seeming almost shy. It's excruciatingly adorable.

Fuck, Stiles thinks.

+

"Fuck," Derek mutters, glaring over at the judges. 

Stiles has always hated the configuration of this room, the way the judges sit directly opposite the designers, with the runway bisecting the room between them. It's too easy to glance over at them while you're watching your design walk the runway, too easy to get distracted and desperately try to read their faces and over-analyse every single detail, too easy to doubt every single thing about your design, yourself, your life...

Right now Allison, Deaton and Lydia are mingling with this week's guest judge, laughing and talking in that overly polite way that people who secretly only barely tolerate each other do. The guest judge has her back to the room, so all Stiles can see is sleek blonde hair and a tight black dress, but Derek, from the way he's pale-faced and more tense than ever, seems to know exactly who she is.

" _Fuck_ ," he says again, more forcefully this time.

Stiles edges closer to Derek on his stool, and with the warmth from Derek's body he could actually get caught up in imagining that very scenario for the nth time—Stiles can't lie, he has imagined fucking Derek since the day they auditioned back in California and Derek was fussing over his rack of beautiful clothes right beside him, waiting to be called in to the judging room, hovering and brushing each item compulsively with a lint roller for three whole hours until his name was finally announced—but he's saved from that by the dire tone of Derek's voice.

"What?" Stiles asks urgently, leaning in closer.

Derek shakes his head, just keeps watching the judges, who are sitting now, and Allison is saying something—

"...and our guest judge, Kate Argent," Allison says warmly, gesturing to the blonde woman, and their fellow contestants clap politely. 

Stiles sucks in air through his teeth. “As in—”

“Yes,” Derek growls.

“She’s—”

“Yes.”

“The same Kate who—”

“ _Yes_ , okay, yes, just—”

"Fuck," Stiles says.

"I told you so," Derek says.

+

The runway show is the most agitating thing Stiles has ever experienced in his life. Of course Danielle kills it—she's involved in the competition because she won a prize, but she's a natural, and she's got a better walk than a lot of the professional models Stiles has seen, so that's not a problem.

The problem is Kate Argent. 

Kate Argent, who is editor in chief of HOUNDSTOOTH, one of America's top fashion magazines, who screwed Derek over years ago and has held a grudge forever. Kate Argent, who Stiles just _knows_ is going to screw Derek over again, because she is just one of those people. (Stiles has had limited experience in the professional fashion world so far, but he does know this: people in this industry have long, long memories, and they love using those long, long memories to dictate your future.)

Stiles finds himself looking at her instead of the show, in complete contrast to Derek who's been looking anywhere but at her. Predictably, she's smiley and appreciative and interested right up until Danielle walks down the runway, first in Stiles' dress and then again in Derek's, when she only looks more and more disgruntled, morphing quickly into disgusted. It's equal measures pathetic and unfair, but the reality is that Kate is the one in the position of power. She could say anything, and she literally holds their fate in her hands.

As if this whole process wasn't terrifying enough already.

The runway show finishes, finally, and the house lights come back up. Stiles and the rest of the contestants are ushered onto the runway for judging, and Stiles watches Derek closely, but he's not sure what else he can do to help him. Are they the kind of friends that help each other out in emotional situations now? Would Derek even want his help?

They finish lining up, Boyd and Isaac at one end, Stiles and Derek at the other, Erica and Danny in the middle, and Allison smiles at them all, like they're not all at the judges' mercy, anxious and terrified to varying degrees. 

"Of the six of you," she says clearly, "one of you is this week's winner, and one of you is this week's eliminated designer. It's time for your critiques, so let's bring out your clients."

Stiles glances over at Kate. She's smirking. Stiles looks at Derek. He's gritting his teeth.

Fuck it, Stiles thinks. He inches sideways, closer to Derek. He half expects Derek to shove him away, or at least politely nudge him aside, but yet again Derek defies his expectations. Instead of any of that, Derek tilts his body so they're pressed together, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Stiles glances over at Kate again. She's frowning. 

Stiles grins.

+

Most of judging is a blur.

Their clients come out to join them on the runway, wearing one outfit and accompanied by a dress form featuring the other. Danielle winks when she sees them, and Stiles is again distracted by how well Derek's dress fits her. It doesn't necessarily follow her instructions implicitly, but she looked pleased when she was trying the clothes on earlier and she seemed super confident and commanding when she walked, so Stiles figures it's all good with her.

"Danny and Erica," Allison starts, "talk me through your designs."

Stiles takes a deep breath and shakes his fingers out, trying to remain calm. He can never decide whether he prefers being critiqued first to get it over with or last to ease him into it, but in the end he decides the whole thing is just one big shitty process and everything is terrible.

A few minutes in, he notices Derek sneaking glances at Kate, who seems overly invested in Danny's explanation of his (admittedly beautiful) silk palazzo pants. Stiles really, really wishes he had some idea about what's happening there. He knows what everyone else knows, that Kate and Derek dated when Derek was a young'un and that it ended badly, but he'd really like some idea of how badly, so he'd know how much he needs to brace himself.

As it turns out, he should have braced himself for a lot. Stiles and Derek are last to be critiqued, with Kate the last to give her comments. And even though Danielle and the other judges only had positive feedback, Kate is merciless—she was overly nice to everyone else, even gushed over Isaac's ugly scarf that the other judges hated, but she tears Stiles' and Derek's dresses apart. It's a ridiculous strategy, but she seems super committed.

"This was Derek's idea, wasn't it," she says snidely, tsking and shaking her head.

Derek flinches, just slightly, and Stiles tries very hard to stop himself from launching over and strangling the fashion world's favourite heiress. "Actually," Stiles says coldly, "this was one hundred percent a collaboration. We borrowed from each other's aesthetics on purpose."

"I can see that," Allison jumps in, smiling at Stiles. "Your use of colour blocking and the way Derek layered his fabrics was a nice touch. I really like that, I love how you both worked together as a team but your individual styles still show through."

Stiles winks at her, thankful she's still backing them up. Kate's her aunt, and it could get weird, but even Stiles has to admit that Allison's always been fair, no matter what.

"It's quite admirable," Deaton agrees. "Derek, your design would photograph beautifully, it's interesting from every angle."

"It's definitely the strongest look on the runway," Lydia says, turning her discerning eye on the rest of the contestants, and Stiles sees Isaac shrink back out of the corner of his eye.

"Well I hate to say it," Kate says, not looking like she's hating anything at all, "but I disagree with all of you. I actually think these are the weakest looks on the runway."

"Surprise surprise," Lydia mutters, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them in the other direction, like she's trying to get as far away from Kate as possible.

Kate just ignores her. "What did you say before, Lydia, they're 'cohesive without being referential'? Really? My first thought was that they aren't cohesive or similar enough."

Allison looks puzzled. "They're not supposed to be too similar," she says slowly. "This isn't a collection. They're just supposed to be cohesive in style. Like they'd be worn by the same woman."

"Well I don't believe they would be," Kate insists, sitting back on her stool, triumphantly like she's just won something, and Stiles' urge to strangle her increases tenfold.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Danielle beats him to it, putting up her hand like she's been called upon in class and waggling her fingers. "Um, excuse me?" she says, sounding offended. "Am I not a real woman? I'm standing here, right? You see me standing here, wearing the clothes, saying I love them?"

That shuts Kate up briefly, and everyone enjoys it for about ten seconds but it's like she just can't help herself, and she blurts out, "Okay, that might be true, but when Allison said—"

Lydia interrupts her, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Okay sweetheart, you do realise that you're here to critique the designers' work, not the comments of your fellow judges, right?"

Stiles has loved Lydia Martin for a long time—first from afar, gazing upon her perfect creations in magazines, then from closer up, in this competition, as she gave him thoughtful, constructive commentary—but he has never loved her more than he does now.

"Well I'm just calling it how I see it!" Kate says, sounding and even looking kind of crazed now. "I have no idea why you're all acting like he's the second coming for using lace, anyone who makes panties can use lace!"

"The lace overlay is very on trend," Deaton says firmly, shutting her down, and before she can continue he turns to Derek and adds, "I enjoyed that you took a risk and were adventurous with the definition of 'print' and made your own. Sometimes you need to think outside of the traditional box, especially so close to fashion week."

Which is probably the most explicit Deaton has ever been with his comments. Derek nods at him in thanks, the height of stoicism, but Stiles sees the tiny little pleased twitch of Derek's mouth, the way he lets himself relax a bit, his right shoulder blade pressing into Stiles' arm. And because Stiles is only half as emotionally stunted as Derek, he smiles in triumph, big enough for the both of them.

Allison jumps on the opportunity to get things moving again. "Thank you designers, we've listened to what you've had to say, you can now leave the runway. We'll deliberate and decide who wins and who goes home, and call you back when we're done."

Stiles lets out a long, long breath, and follows Derek off the runway.

+

Sitting in the tiny windowless room just down the hall from the runway stage, waiting while the judges deliberate, is always shitty. It's claustrophobic, perching on the uncomfortable couches for god knows how long, tension rising. Stiles can never decide whether time speeds up or slows down, because somehow it feels like a torturous mixture of both. Usually at least he and/or Isaac have something to say, even something insulting, but one look at Isaac and Stiles knows he's not up for it today.

He sticks close to Derek instead, knocking their knees together rhythmically as he chews at his fingernails, and Derek lets him.

In a shock twist, it's Boyd who finally breaks the silence. "No matter what happens," he says fiercely, "it was worth it."

It works—Erica turns to kiss his cheek, Danny rolls his eyes, even Isaac gives a quick little smile.

Stiles grins broadly. "You're a real quality not quantity type of guy, dude," he says fondly, reaching out to pat his shoulder.

"We're still not friends," Boyd growls, dodging him, and just like that the status quo is restored.

+

"Stiles and Derek…" Allison says, looking steadily at them, face unreadable as usual.

Back on the runway, awaiting their fate, Stiles can't help but think that this really is the worst judging he's ever been a part of. It's even worse than the unconventional challenge, when the judges hated everyone's look except the jacket Boyd made out of old ice skates. This is terrible. Stiles is sweating, like really sweating, like they should probably stop so he can replenish his fluids, what if he gets dehydrated, what if he faints in front of all these people? What if he doesn't faint but he holds on long enough for them to lose and then Derek gets sent home, what if he's let Derek down, what if—

But before he can panic any further, Derek moves closer to _him_ this time, crowding in close, grounding, and Stiles finally lets out his breath. He glances up at Derek, who is looking back at him already, eyebrows low and comforting. Stiles' breathing evens out. He turns to face Allison head on.

She holds on for just a little bit longer, really milking the moment, before finally saying, "...you are the winners of this challenge."

+

There's a hug. Derek smells amazing. Derek feels amazing. Derek is amazing.

Allison says only one of them can win the overall prize of immunity for the next challenge. 

"Derek should have it," Stiles says immediately, through relieved gasping breaths, because _Derek is amazing_. 

+

As soon as they're dismissed and out of sight of the judges, heading back to the green room to go and wait for the others, Stiles turns to Derek, amazing Derek, probably to risk another hug, but Derek ignores him, yanks him into a tiny alcove off the main hallway and shoves him against the wall.

"Woah dude, I thought we'd moved past all the—"

"Why did you do that?" Derek demands to know, moving in close. He's staring at Stiles like… 

It's then that Stiles realises the look on Derek's face is nowhere near hostile, it's… It's awe? It's surprise and hesitancy and hope, maybe. It's something he's never seen on Derek's face before.

"Do what?" Stiles asks softly.

"Say I should win. Why? We both worked hard, we worked together, we… I just don't get it."

"You deserve it, Derek." Derek flinches back but Stiles moves with him, so Derek is now the one pressed against the opposite wall, refusing to look at Stiles. "You do. You're the one who never gave up, who got us back on track. I followed your lead in everything, I learned more from you in this challenge than like, all the other challenges put together. You were awesome."

Derek finally meets his gaze and Stiles grins, feels hot and queasy and also maybe a bit tingly at the base of his scalp but he tries not to let it show. "When this is over," Derek says slowly, "when one of us wins, once that person has endured all of the press and all the shit that comes with winning and finally has a moment to themselves, we are going to fuck. For hours."

"O...okay," Stiles says, dazed.

"And then we're going to date," Derek decides. "For as long as possible."

"For long enough to see bell bottoms come around again at least twice?" Stiles asks, somewhat inanely, but Derek smirks.

"For long enough that zoot suits will trend again," he promises. His hand moves up, over Stiles' forearm and elbow and bicep and shoulder, up to his neck, where fingers cup and a thumb strokes tenderly.

Stiles plays it cool, and pretends like he isn't practically twitching out of his skin at the touch. "That's a super serious commitment, dude."

"I'm aware."

"You do not joke about the zoot suit, the zoot suit is important, protect the zoot suit. Where would gangster costumes be today without the zoot suit? Zoot suits were a luxury item, you know."

"Stiles," Derek says. "Stop saying zoot."

Stiles grins slowly, pressing as close to Derek as possible. "I fucking love team challenges," he says, and pulls Derek in for a kiss.

+

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: Erica wins, wow how convenient, Stiles and Derek can get together immediately, challenging each other creatively and romantically and living happily ever after.
> 
> [Zoot suits](http://electricka.com/etaf/muses/music/gone_but_not_forgotten/big_band_era/multimedia/zoot-suit-yellow.jpg) really are pretty great.
> 
> For reference, here is [Stiles' dress](http://www1.bloomingdales.com/shop/product/lafayette-148-new-york-plus-dixie-graphic-print-shift?ID=1255537&CategoryID=5467) and [Derek's dress](http://img01.zerogrey.com/upload/216/cms/22328/default/2080/1/VANESSA-HUDGENS2.jpg). Derek's dress is a) probably not realistically doable considering the time restraints and b) obviously not technically a plus sized dress, but I liked it, I couldn't help it. The closest thing I found to showing how it sits on a (slightly) larger body is [this](http://www1.macys.com/shop/product/lauren-ralph-lauren-plus-size-floral-print-pleated-dress?ID=1984698&CategoryID=37038).


End file.
